2 o'clock revelations
I'm starting to get manic-depressive.
Not the clinical manic-depressive mind you. The emotional and paranoid type. The type where you find yourself reading through other people's blogs and realising, Egad I barely exist in these. And I thought I was someone. type. Yes, that kind of manic-depressive. The type which once admitted to someone removes that person from ever helping you get out of it because, well, he already knows what you're going through and anything he does from that point on is a result of knowing. Not an unconscious willingness to remind you Yes, you are special to me.
Maybe its because partly I'm still regretting cutting away certain ties. Or maybe its because certain past events still haunt me whenever I read words (or phrases) like love, poetry, late-night meetings with friends and night-outs. I guess I just can't seem to accept the fact that those are things of the past.
Or things I have made to be my past.
There was a time I could not stop writing poetry.
There was a time almost every other things I scribbled down was an empathic moment written to be shared.
There was a time I could love someone and write everything that made that person special in a few lines.
There was a time I didn't stop and find myself in moments like this.
But again, that is the past.
And what's more frightening is how a simple thing like a blog can seem so friggin' inviting a mantle piece to offer all these worries and insecurities and wish by posting them they will go away.
comic books and life
I used to collect them.
Yeah. Was pretty proud of them too.
I had the complete colored set of Akira graphic novels (all 30+ issues), I had Ronin, I had Face, I had a near complete set of New Mutants. I had every hard sought issue of Power Pack. I had the Infinity Gauntlet saga, Extinction Agenda, Days of Future Past. I even had Meltdown and that digital Batman graphic novel.
Some time at a certain point in my life, I became honestly foolish and idealistic, and gave them all away to friends. I was leaving for the States to take a film workshop, you see. And part of me had this strong desire to take that step to finding new life and fortune in the Land of the Bickering States.
But while there, I realised I needed my friends. I wanted their company.
I wanted their nit-picking. Their annoying jokes. Their sing-a-long fests during traffic. Their smelly feet and their soot-coated lungs. I was a part of them as they were a part of me, and apart as we were, I was half a person with half a reason to be happy.
So I came back home.
Lo and behold, they were gone.
While I was busy romanticising the idea of coming home and receiving welcome hugs and sharing my adventures with them... they were all growing up and moving on with their lives. And most likely. somewhere in the dank, dark corners of their attics and basements, my comics lay forgotten and left behind.
Losing the comics wasn't easy.
Losing my friends was even harder.
But realising they do have something of yours to remember you and they still didn't
well.. that just opens one's eyes, eh?
Maybe that's enough ranting for one blog post.
I miss being happy with friends.
Nowadays, its seems to be a rare commodity.
Heck, even priests have orgasms more frequently than I do share great moments with friends now.